Poor Fellow
by redcandle
Summary: The arming of the Faith saves Sandor Clegane from a life of boredom on the Quiet Isle.


Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and elements from A Song of Ice and Fire belong to George R.R. Martin. No copyright infringement is intended.

The Quiet Isle was named true. As Sandor Clegane labored on another grave, the silence was interrupted only by the occasional bird call or the distant bleating of sheep. He had never been so bored in his life. He longed for a good bout of swordplay in the yard or, better yet, worthy enemies to fight by day. And by night, he craved wine and whores.

There was none of that here. Here there was hard, dull work from sun up to sun down; here there were prayers that lasted hours before, during, and after meals. At night he laid wake for hours, with only his thoughts for company. There was nothing more pleasant to think of than Sansa Stark so he let his mind linger on her, and cursed himself when he grew hard and had only his hand for relief.

He slept better here, no longer plagued by nightmares and fearful Gregor was coming for him the brief moment after waking each day. The Elder Brother said he had found peace. Sandor thought it was merely because he _knew_ his brother could never hurt him again. Gregor was dead, and he'd heard that his head had been sent as a gift to the Martells. That was all well and good, but Sandor's life had ended too.

He would have left the septry, but there was nowhere to go. The Elder Brother had buried his arms and armor, so he did not even have the necessities for life as a sellsword. And there was his leg. He walked with a heavy limp, though at least he no longer needed the use of a crutch. He let himself face the truth sometimes: he was a useless cripple. He ought to be grateful that the good _brothers_ let him stay here. He had a warm, dry place to sleep, plentiful food, and even some weak ale. It was a kinder fate than he'd face outside the septry. If he left, he would meet his death at the hands of any man with a blade and greed for the reward on his head, so he stayed. Still, it was a bitter potion to swallow; he was not yet thirty and he was living an old man's life.

When the High Septon summoned all godly warriors to defend the Faith, Sandor left the Quiet Isle with the other brothers who'd decided to go. The Elder Brother was not pleased. He himself was a former knight and he had decided never to fight again, not even for the Faith. "Some men can atone for their sins by serving the Seven with their swords," he told Sandor, "But others do best to live without shedding blood…those who would kill for themselves rather than the gods..."

He was right. Sandor didn't give a mummer's fart for the gods. He wanted the joy of battle again, even if it meant reciting pious drivel. "The Seven want my sword in their service," he said to the Elder Brother, whose healing hands had grown so strong of late that Sandor barely limped anymore. "Why else would they permit you to heal my wounds so well?" The Elder Brother voiced no more objections after that, but his face was grave when he watched them depart.

With the hood of his robes raised and a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, no one recognized him. They told stories in his presence of the Hound's savagery, of how he had devoured the breasts of a twelve year old girl and then put her whole village to the torch. Others said he had joined the Lightning Lord in hanging Freys. Most amusing of all were the men he encountered who boasted that they would be the one to slay the Hound. Sandor could easily have killed all of them. He wondered how the man who'd stolen his snarling dog's head helm would fare.

As soon as he reached King's Landing, he made his confession to the High Septon and begged to serve the gods. The old man was moved to tears that such a sinner would seek the blessing of the Seven. He was further impressed that a landed knight's son would seek to serve as a Poor Fellow rather than as one of the Warrior's Sons. He granted permission, and as Sandor did not possess a sword, he gave him one, a sword said to have belonged to a High Septon who challenged the Targaryens centuries ago. Sandor feigned the expected awe.

He had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing his arse off when he met the commander of the holy knights. Lancel Lannister wasn't fit to command a flock of sheep, and that had been before the fool starved himself. Lancel seemed to recognize him – not surprising since Sandor was a very large man and his raspy voice was distinctive – but he said nothing about their prior acquaintance. He only invited Sandor to pray together. Sandor declined the invitation. He declined Lancel's offer to lend him a hair shirt too.

It might have been worth it to take a knight's vows and serve as a Warrior's Son, Sandor thought when he met the commoners he was to command. The Poor Fellows were comprised of farmers who'd only ever used a blade on a cow and merchants who'd never used one at all. He also recognized a number of local toughs who used to loiter around the ill-reputed parts of the city. One of them looked like a man Sandor had once beaten in a tavern for voicing his regret that the mob had not gotten their hands on King Joffrey's bride-to-be.

Still, it was his task to train them to kill and that was one thing Sandor knew how to do very well. They didn't complain like the green squires he'd worked with in his former life and they did everything they were told to do. When Mace Tyrell grew tired of sitting outside King's Landing and set Randyll Tarly to attack, Sandor's men were ready for them.

It was a near thing, but the Faith's defenders pushed the Tyrell men back out of the city. Afterward, they said Sandor had fought like the Warrior himself. He preferred to think of himself as the Stranger, but the whispers pleased him nonetheless. It was almost enough to forget how he had gotten drunk, and cried, and ran the night the Imp set the Blackwater Bay afire.

Queen Margaery's trial was held soon after that. A crowd of commoners gathered to proclaim her innocence and urge the judges to release her. Sandor remembered the fat High Septon who'd been torn apart during the bread riots. This High Septon risked no such fate, not with his host of holy warriors around him. The Tyrell girl demanded trial by combat when the option was offered to her. A wise choice, Sandor thought. Those dried up old septas looked like to condemn the girl for being young and fair.

Sandor grimaced when Loras Tyrell appeared, his white cloak fluttering behind him. The pretty boy they'd called the Knight of Flowers was now uglier than him, his entire body badly burned. But the misfortune he'd suffered and his resulting anger had given him the savagery he'd lacked to go with his technical skill before. He killed the knight championing the Faith in less time than it took to eat an apple.

Afterward, Loras led his sister to his waiting horse, his bloody sword still in hand, lest anyone try to stop them. They would leave the city, most likely. Sandor had no head for the kinds of games people like Littlefinger enjoyed, but even he knew the great lords could not allow septons to usurp their power. There would be more battles, and lots of them. He had little interest in the final outcome.

When Cersei Lannister was brought out for her trial, Sandor was shocked by the sight of her. She was filthy and clad only in a shapeless roughspun shift. Her hair was a tangled mess and her fingernails were as long as claws. He had served her for too many years not to feel sorry for her now. She screamed for her twin brother Jaime to save her.

Kevan Lannister stepped forward and requested the trial be postponed until Ser Balon or Ser Arys could return from Dorne. The High Septon reminded him that there were five other knights of the Kingsguard right here in the city. Kevan said nothing. Everyone knew that Jaime had been maimed, that Loras refused to fight for Cersei, that Boros Blount and Meryn Trant were useless, and that Osmund Kettleblack was an upjumped sellsword. Kevan pleaded for one more day at least, but the High Septon refused.

It took only minutes for the council of holy men and women to find the Queen Regent guilty of ordering the murder of the previous High Septon, of conspiring to bear false witness against her son's wife, and of fornication. Cersei was led back to her cell still screaming for Jaime. She would be executed on the morrow.

Sandor found himself thinking of Sansa Stark. She stood accused of regicide for Joffrey's murder. When she was found, her fate would be much the same as Cersei's. He would be surprised if that big ugly wench from Tarth ever managed to find her, the way she blundered around announcing her intentions to everyone. There would be no one to champion Sansa.

He left that night, disguised as a peasant, with a wagon hitched to his warhorse Stranger, and the Tyrell sentries allowed him to pass without examination. It wasn't until he was at Maidenpool, awaiting a ship to Gulltown, that he heard the news. In King's Landing, the Lannisters had unleashed some sort of monster to rescue the Queen. And in the North, the Wall had fallen.


End file.
